The Actress
by Karen Weasley
Summary: "Love, for lack of a better word, is a game I fail to understand, and so I opt not to play." - Sherlock Holmes A woman Sherlock believed dead is brought to New York by Mycroft. How does Sherlock know her, what has happened to her, how does Watson feel about it, and will this woman and Sherlock ever be able to be what they once were before the drugs and Moriarty drove them apart?
1. Chapter 1

_**Imposter**_

"Look, we know you did it, so there's no point denying it," Marcus Bell said sternly across the interrogation table. "You wanna tell us why you killed two people?"

The woman sat stubbornly still and quiet across from him, her black hair framing a pale face with cold eyes.

"Let's try this," Bell continued in the same professional tone. "We have your DNA as a match to the DNA found at both crime scenes, but it's not on record. You wanna tell us your real name?"

"I told you," the woman said slowly and flatly. "My name is Allison Jones."

"No it's not because Allison Jones died over a year ago in London!" Bell yelled.

"That's who I am," the woman repeated. "You must have the wrong information."

"Right…Scotland Yard put the wrong name down and sent us the wrong file," Bell said sarcastically.

"I have nothing else to say to you people," the woman spat before falling into emotionless silence again.

"Well, we'll just see about that when our consultant gets here…" Bell muttered before slamming the door of the interrogation room behind him. "Where is Holmes?" he demanded through gritted teeth.

"He's on his way up now," Gregson replied. "I sure hope he can get more out of this one."

"We've got enough proof to put her away if we only knew who she is," Bell added with a glance over his shoulder at the woman in the room.

Within moments, the quick, sharp sounds of Holmes' footsteps could be heard approaching the interrogation room. "You said on the phone that you have our suspect?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yeah we got her," Gregson sighed. "Now if we can figure out who she is."

"Meaning?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Meaning she keeps giving a name of a dead person," Bell replied.

"Well that's certainly different," Sherlock observed with a tone of near amusement. "What name is she giving you?"

"Allison Jones," Bell replied with a sigh. "According to Scotland Yard, she was murdered over a year ago in London. They never found the body, but…"

"I am well acquainted with the case, Detective," Sherlock snapped, his face falling to the stern expression that was only used to mask deep, emotional pain. "May I?" he asked with a pointed glance at Gregson.

"Be my guest," Gregson replied. "Do what you can."

Sherlock nodded once before moving into the interrogation room and pulling the door closed behind him.

"What's going on?" Joan asked as she finally came around the corner.

"Our suspect won't tell us her real name," Bell explained. "She's almost as tough as your partner."

"That's a little scary," Joan admitted as she moved to watch through the glass.

Inside the interrogation room, everything was deadly silent. Sherlock stood stock still with barely a breath of room between his back and the heavy door to the rest of the station. The dark haired woman sat straight backed and stiff against the hard, metal chair as she stared directly at her handcuffs glistening against the desk. The air was tense enough to be cut with a knife as each waited for the other to speak. Finally, it was the woman who broke the silence.

"You must be the 'consultant' the detective was talking about," she said without looking at him. "So, are you going to grill me or just stand there? It's not like I can't tell you're staring at me."

Sherlock took several deep breaths in through his nose that could easily be heard through the glass before speaking. "Who are you?" he finally demanded in a voice that left no room for silence.

The woman sighed exasperatedly. "As I have been telling the detective all day, my name is Allison Jones."

"You're lying," Sherlock replied, gritting his teeth to prevent his anger from bursting forth. "Allison Jones is dead!"

The woman finally looked up at him, and her eyes finally showed some sense of emotion. "Oh my…of course, I should have known you'd be here."

"Excuse me?"

"Well, when I couldn't find you in London, I should have known you'd come here…my old home," she replied with a hint of fondness.

Sherlock was having a very difficult time keeping his anger in now. "You are not Allison Jones because the real Allison Jones would not have murdered two innocent people for no apparent reason!" He was shouting now, his face beet red in utter fury.

The woman laughed coldly. "We haven't seen each other in over a year, dear Sherlock, so how would you know who I am anymore?"

Sherlock continued to breathe deeply as he stared at the woman in front of him. "How are you not dead?" he challenged.

The woman laughed again. "Oh really, now. They didn't want me dead, just out of the way so you could continue your fall. I see that it worked quite well," she smirked. "You are nowhere near the man you were the last time we were together. Do you remember that, Sherlock? The last time we were…together?"

To a normal eye, Sherlock's face betrayed nothing, but his eyes flashed momentarily in recognition. He stared at her intently for a moment before speaking again. "Where have you been all this time?"

"Does it really matter now?" the woman countered.

Sherlock held her gaze and took a deep breath. "Nine?" he questioned.

The woman stared at him in utter confusion. "I'm sorry?" she stuttered.

"Nine?" he asked again, his face betraying nothing.

"Sherlock, why are you saying random numbers?" she laughed. "What does this have to do with anything?"

Without another word, Sherlock turned and left the interrogation room. He moved quickly to meet the detectives and his partner who were all just emerging from the watching room.

"What was all of that?" Gregson asked.

"That woman is not Allison Jones," Sherlock said simply. "You have my solemn word, Captain."

"Ok…so who is she?" Bell asked.

"Oh I have no idea," Sherlock replied. "However, I'm quite certain that the NYPD can handle solving that mystery without me, yes? Good." He hurried off towards the elevator without another word.

Joan was left, as usual, to try and make a polite exit for herself and her partner even though the two officers were more than used to Holmes' strange behavior by now.

"I'll see if I can figure out what's wrong with him," Joan promised.

"Good luck," Gregson muttered.

Joan's only reply was a wry smile as she followed her companion to the exit. Unsurprisingly, he was standing on the pavement – well, she supposed rocking was a better description – obviously waiting for a taxi. Joan had worked with him long enough to know not to say anything about what had happened inside until they were safely behind the walls of the Brownstone, but it did not seem as though Sherlock was in the mood to let her…

"Out with it Watson!" he demanded as soon as she had shut the front door. "You're body language in the cab practically screamed holding back a question, and I'd rather not spend all night waiting for you to ask."

Joan sighed. "What was all that about back at the precinct?" she asked cautiously. She had barely enough time to compare dealing with Sherlock to dealing with a baby animal; the slightest scare would send him into hiding for hours, days, or even weeks.

"I interrogated a suspect and found her to be guilt of the crime but lying about her identity," Sherlock replied sharply. "I should think that I no longer have to explain why to you."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it," Joan countered, still keeping her calm tone intact but refusing to back down.

Sherlock said nothing but continued to stare at her with obvious signs of his walls moving into place.

"Who is Allison Jones, how do you know her, and why were you so angry with the suspect?" Joan asked, knowing that he would either answer her questions or disappear.

He breathed deeply and turned away from her for a moment. "I was angry because she was pretending to be someone she was not…it would not do for a monster such as that to besmirch the good name of an innocent woman."

"I understand that," Joan replied honestly, taking a step forward. "But you seemed…I don't know…hurt almost. I haven't seen that look on your face since Irene."

Sherlock stiffened and turned back to face her with a pained expression mixed with a valiant effort to keep his pain hidden. "Watson…please believe me when I say that I trust you implicitly. I would put my life in your hands without a second thought, and I have not been able to say that to many people in my life. I am certain you recall my reluctance to speak of Irene and the pain she caused in my life. I am afraid that I cannot answer your questions because of a worse pain that they would cause me. Please do me the favor of not asking them again. This is one thing that must remain unsaid."

Joan stared with a slightly open mouth as Sherlock left the kitchen without another word. Never before had he admitted so openly that a subject was painful to him, and never had he admitted that it was his choice to keep a secret and not her fault. It was obvious that whatever was going on with him cut deeper than even the ordeal with Irene turned Moriarty.

Despite her curiosity surrounding the issue, Joan knew it was pointless to press Sherlock when he made his mind up, and somehow…she couldn't even bring herself to want to press him on this topic. Something about the way he had looked both at the precinct and again just now made her feel incredible pity for him No, she would not press for the answers she wanted, and she knew she would not even dare to go looking for them on her own. This time, she mused, she might just have to move on and leave a mystery behind.

Several weeks later, Sherlock was growing bored again as no new cases had come from Gregson that offered them more than a few hours' work at most. Joan was beginning to fear for the safety of the Brownstone as every day Sherlock's experiments grew more and more dangerous to the point of almost setting fire to his bedroom and almost melting the kitchen with acid. As he once again began to pace up and down the room, occasionally kicking his soccer ball against the wall, Joan lost her patience.

"Ok!" she cried, slamming the book she had been reading closed. "I get it that you're bored and want another case, I really do. But do you have to make it your personal goal to destroy the house because of it?"

"I believe we are long past the point of me having to apologize for my habits," Sherlock replied without ceasing his pacing.

"I'm not asking you to apologize," Joan argued through gritted teeth as she attempted to seize the ball before it could collide with the wall again. "I'm just asking you to cut it out!"

Sherlock trapped the ball and opened his mouth to reply when, mercifully, the doorbell rang.

"Thank God!" Joan groaned as Sherlock hurried to answer it.

"No you are not coming in here!" she heard Sherlock yell at whomever was at the door. "I am not letting you within five feet of Watson again."

"Mycroft…" Joan sighed as she rose from the couch and shuffled to the door.

It was indeed Mycroft standing on their doorstep, but it did not appear as though he was there under his usual pretenses. His face was drawn and worried as he looked only at his brother.

"I promise you that I am not here to see Joan, although it is a lovely byproduct," he added with a nod to her. "I would not even be here, but circumstances have forced my hand."

"What circumstances?" Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft hesitated.

"Would you like to come in?" Joan asked with the dual motive of being polite and hoping it would help Mycroft get straight to the point to reduce the risk of Sherlock losing his temper too quickly.

"No thank you, Joan," he replied. "I'm afraid I cannot leave…certain things…in my car for too long."

Both Sherlock and Joan caught the obvious hesitation on the words "certain things", but neither said anything for the moment.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock demanded again.

"I was cleaning out 221B the other day and taking some of my things to storage," Mycroft explained. "I had just finished packing a box and was bringing it outside to my car when I noticed something odd. I had to come to you right away, so I took the next plane here."

"What on Earth could be so important?" Sherlock asked skeptically.

"Come with me," Mycroft instructed his brother and moved down the stairs toward the car parked at the bottom. "I can't manage alone," he added when his brother did not immediately move to follow.

Sherlock sighed and scowled but followed Mycroft down the stairs and towards the car. "Now what is it?" he demanded.

"I warn you, Sherlock…this may be something of a shock to you…I know it was to me. I can still hardly believe it, to tell you the truth. She was just there – collapsed on the doorstep of 221B, muttering and whispering your name over and over again like it was the only word she knew. I can't imagine what's happened to her, and I'm not entirely certain I want to."

"'Her'?" Sherlock asked, now looking genuinely confused. "'She'?"

Mycroft nodded and opened the passenger side back door. Sitting there on the seat looking half starved, half crazed, and completely terrified was a woman not more than a few years younger than Sherlock.

Sherlock felt his throat close and his breathing speed up as the woman's eyes frantically rose to meet his own.

"Sh-Sherlock?" she gasped, her tone full of fear and exhaustion.

"It can't be…" Sherlock finally forced out.

"F-five…" she breathed, looking him dead in the eye.

"Allison…?" Sherlock gasped.

She nodded shakily before slumping against the back of the seat in a dead faint.

_**Well, this is the beginning of my first Elementary story! I've been sitting on this story since midway through season 1, and I finally decided it was time to deal with it and write it down. I hope you all don't think it's too predictable or anything like that…I'll try to keep it from becoming that. Please let me know what you think of it – staying on character is very important for me especially with Sherlock. His mannerisms are tough to write, but I did my best. Let me know your thoughts, and I'll work on having chapter 2 up soon! Thank you!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**She Can't Stay Here**_

"Allison!" Sherlock cried and bent to lift her from the car.

Her limp form more resembled a rag doll than a person. Sherlock hoisted her into his arms bridal style and gently tucked her head against his neck. Mycroft moved forward to help, but Sherlock snapped at him.

"I can manage well enough on my own! Watson!" he bellowed.

Joan suddenly appeared on the landing of the Brownstone with a look of readiness and concern on her face at Sherlock's tone.

Sherlock practically sprinted up the stairs, taking two at a time and still somehow managing to protect the limp form in his arms. "She needs medical attention, now!" he said with a snap that dripped with concern.

"I'll call an ambulance," Joan replied, pulling out her phone and preparing to dial.

"NO!" Sherlock yelled as he moved into the house and hurried towards the spare bedroom directly next to his own room. "I trust your abilities, but I do not want her to go to a hospital."

"Why?" Joan asked in confusion as she followed Sherlock up the stairs, leaving Mycroft to find his own way into the house.

Joan ran the last few steps to the second floor and peered into the room Sherlock had disappeared into. He was gently lying the limp form down on the bed and fidgeting as though unsure what to do next. "Why can't I call an ambulance?" Joan repeated in a softer tone.

"Because what is wrong with her will land her either in jail or in rehab for God knows how long, and that is the last thing she'll need at the moment," Sherlock replied. "Please, Joan," he continued when she opened her mouth to argue – the use of her first name instantly quieted her. "I…I don't want her out of my sight, and so…I ask you to help her and not ask questions right now."

Joan bit her lip but nodded. She moved into the room and gave the form on the bed a calculating look. "She's very weak. I would even say she hasn't eaten anything substantial in weeks…maybe longer. Sherlock…I'm going to have to do a thorough examination, so would you mind?"

Sherlock nodded and left the room quickly and quietly. He pulled the door closed behind him and hurried back down the stairs to where his brother was waiting in the living room. "How did you find her?" he asked.

Mycroft looked up in surprise. It wasn't the question that was unexpected, Mycroft knew he would have some explaining to do. But the tone…it wasn't accusatory or calculating at all. It sounded almost desperate in a way that Mycroft would never have believed his brother could achieve.

"As I said, I was packing up some of my things from Baker Street when I saw her literally crawling towards me. At first, I thought she was just some drunk or drug riddled woman in a daze, but then I realized she wasn't trying to get to me but the house. She wanted into 221B, and I couldn't imagine why. Everyone in London knows you left almost two years ago now. Then I heard her. She was muttering a name over and over again like it was the only thing she knew in the world."

Sherlock's face had gone rigid with the signs of holding back pain as Mycroft continued his tale.

"She was saying your name, Sherlock. When she got to me, she grabbed my trouser leg and said your name again. I bent down and told her you had moved. I had no idea who she was at first. Obviously, she doesn't look anything like herself at the moment. Anyway, she looked up at me and said, 'Please…Sherlock…four.' It was the 'four' that gave it away. I recognized your code which I now realize the importance of, and brought her inside. Unfortunately, she quickly passed out, and I knew I had to get her to you as fast as I could. I knew you would never forgive me for going to the police or the hospital with her in that condition."

Sherlock nodded, and his lips twitched as though he was fighting back tears.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed. "I know we've never been that close, but I also know how much Allison means to you. I won't think less of you for crying over the state she's in. If anyone knows how much she's hurting, it's you."

Sherlock made a noise halfway between a cough and a choke as his body finally surrendered the inner battle that had been raging since he had seen the woman in the car. He slowly raised a hand to his face as the tears and gasps of pain began to become more frequent. Mycroft stood and carefully guided his brother by the arm to the couch and sat down beside him.

"She's going to be alight, Sherlock," he said confidently. "She's made of the strongest stuff. And she has you to thank for most of that."

"Including the drugs," Sherlock gasped between his tears. "I know it's my fault…"

"Sherlock don't be stupid," Mycroft insisted, squeezing his brother's shoulder reassuringly. "You saw the marks on her arm just like I did. Allison is right handed and those marks were on her right arm. I think someone else did that to her."

Just as Sherlock made to respond, Joan came back into the room with a grim look on her face.

"Sherlock…I need to talk to you," she said sternly.

"Is she alright?" Mycroft asked, correctly reading the flash of panic in his brother's eyes.

"She's sleeping now," Joan replied. "But I still need to talk to Sherlock."

"You can say it to both of us, Joan," Mycroft replied, seizing his brother's arm to stop him from standing. "My brother is in no fit state to be interrogated right now."

"Fine," Joan replied with a sigh. "I know how much this woman means to you, Sherlock. I would have to be blind not to see it, and I won't even pretend to know who she is or how you know her. Goodness knows I'm not privy to such information, but I also know what a trigger looks like. Even though I'm not your sober companion anymore, I still care about your sobriety. That woman upstairs is on drugs, and she cannot stay in this house."

Mycroft stiffened as he saw Sherlock begin to get angry at Joan's words. "What did you say?" Sherlock breathed dangerously.

"I said she can't stay here," Joan repeated, not backing down in the slightest. "I know what you're like, and after what I saw you go through with Alistair's death, I would be crazy to think you could handle a recovering addict in the same house."

"Joan," Mycroft began soothingly, "I don't think she took the drugs willingly. She's right handed, and the marks are-"

"It doesn't matter," Joan cut across him sternly. "Regardless of how she became addicted, she is. And she will suffer the same symptoms of withdrawal that every other addict goes through. I don't think it's safe to have that in the same house as another recovering addict."

"I am over two years sober," Sherlock seethed, his anger resting just below the boiling point.

"Sherlock it's still a risk, you said so yourself," Joan pointed out. "Now I'm not going to argue about this tonight. She can stay until she's awake and a little stronger, but I will not allow her to recover here. I'll call any rehab center in the city you want, but I will not let her stay here to recover."

With that, she left the kitchen as Sherlock continued to seethe with anger and Mycroft prepared to deal with the inevitable outburst.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft began.

"How dare she decide who can stay here and who can't?" Sherlock hissed through his teeth. "Doesn't she realize how important Allison is to me?"

"No she doesn't," Mycroft replied simply. "She has no idea how much Allison means to you because you've shut the world out. You never talk about her, so how could Joan know? Now I'm not saying she's right," he added hastily. "But I do think you should explain things to her. You owe her that much after everything that's happened between you."

"I don't think that would be advisable right now," Sherlock muttered, still angry and short.

"No I agree," Mycroft added. "I'll speak to Joan and see if I can pacify her for the time being. You go upstairs and sit with Allison."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "How do you plan on 'pacifying' Watson?" he asked.

"Do you honestly care if it keeps Allison under your care?" Mycroft challenged.

Sherlock did not reply but nodded sharply before leaving the kitchen in a rush. His feet pounded hard against the stairs, and he hoped Watson heard him. His anger still throbbed through his veins. How dare she? She saw absolutely nothing wrong with sleeping with his brother or correcting his every move, but the moment he wanted something she had to climb all over him. Did she not trust him? Had she not said herself that another person's condition had nothing to do with his sobriety?

He knew he would not allow Allison to leave the house under any circumstances until he was certain she was alright, and even then…no! He would not allow his thoughts to travel in that direction just yet. Right now he needed to focus on helping Allison heal rather than deal with that painful memory.

Standing in the doorway of her room and looking at her sleeping form, Sherlock finally felt a sense of calm begin to wash over him. She looked so peaceful and comfortable, and he wondered what had happened to her to cause her so much pain. He knew that eventually he would feel anger and the desire for revenge on whoever had hurt her, but not until she was in a condition for him to leave her alone again. He knew there would be no cases for him for a while, but oddly enough, it didn't bother him.

His normally frantic mind had narrowed to focusing on the woman in the room before him to the exclusion of all else. He quietly crossed the threshold and moved a chair so he could sit beside the bed and be closer to the woman lying on it. He gently took her hand and rubbed her knuckles with his thumb as she continued to sleep, unaware of the rare attention she was receiving.

Meanwhile, Mycroft was doing his best to reason with Joan to give Allison a chance.

"You have no idea how important she is to him," he argued.

"I don't care…" Joan replied. "She's obviously on drugs, and I will not allow anything to threaten Sherlock's sobriety. That woman is a threat to him staying sober. I won't risk it, Mycroft. You know how he is."

"Yes I do, but I also know that this woman will do far more damage if she is outside the house rather than in it," Mycroft pointed out. "Believe me, I know how difficult he is to understand, but you need to give him a chance to explain. I don't know the entire story either, Joan, but I know enough to say she needs to stay here."

"What could be so important about her?" Joan cried. "He told me Irene was the only woman he ever loved, and since you don't know her she can't be a relative, so what does that leave?"

"Did you ever consider the possibility that Sherlock was lying about only loving one woman?" Mycroft asked. "Perhaps he was trying to protect a far deeper pain."

"He couldn't have kept that from me for all this time," Joan muttered.

Mycroft took her hand across the table. "Joan…we both know that Sherlock is not an average man, and that his logic is different than ours. He can keep anything from anyone if he has a good reason for it. Allison is a secret he kept from everyone, and I have no idea why. I understand you are worried for his sobriety, but I think you would do far worse damage by sending her away or forcing him to choose between the two of you."

Joan bit her lip in thought at Mycroft's words. True, she did want what was best for Sherlock, but Mycroft had a point – she didn't know anything about the woman upstairs. Maybe she was being a bit unfair, but she was still concerned the presence of drugs would put Sherlock too close to a relapse for her comfort. She knew how Sherlock was when he made up his mind about something, and arguing about this could potentially force a wedge in between them that they did not need. Perhaps it was best to simply allow the current situation to progress for a little while and only intervene if she felt she needed to.

"Fine," she finally whispered. "She can stay, but I reserve the right to remove her if I think she's causing a problem."

"I'm sure Sherlock can respect that," Mycroft smiled. "And now, why don't we go out for a late night drink and let Sherlock and Allison be alone for a while?"

"That sounds lovely," Joan breathed in relief. "It's been too long since I was out of the house."

Mycroft smiled indulgently and held her coat for her before following her out of the house.

It had been several hours since Sherlock had heard the door close announcing Mycroft and Watson's departure. Allison had still not stirred, but Sherlock refused to sleep in case she woke up and needed him. He had no real idea what to do for her except allow her to sleep. He knew from experience that being awake was much harder on recovering addicts because the symptoms could not be ignored.

His thumb was still caressing her knuckles, and he felt his heart stop when a slight pressure was returned. His eyes flicked up to her face just in time to see her stir and whimper, in fear or pain he could not tell.

"Allison?" he called gently.

She did not respond but began to shift more and more to the point of writhing while her whimpers became screams. Sherlock seized her shoulders and shook her.

"Allison!" he called, much louder now. "Wake up!"

Allison jerked awake, breathing hard and staring around the room in utter terror. Her eyes finally found Sherlock, and her breathing slowed. "Sh-Sherlock?" she muttered.

"It's alright," he insisted. "You're safe here."

Allison slumped back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. "Safe…" she muttered. "I'd forgotten what that felt like."

Sherlock bit his tongue back against the questions he longed to ask her.

She glanced sideways and smiled. "You were always horrible at hiding things," she grinned. "I know you want to ask about it, so why don't you?"

"It is no doubt painful for you," Sherlock began, choosing each word carefully. "The last thing I would want to be is indelicate. You no doubt need time to recover before reliving something so devastating."

"Will you stop?" Allison sighed. "Trying to be normal doesn't suit you, and I honestly have to ask where on Earth you picked it up from?"

"Watson has been trying to make me more of a member of society," Sherlock replied with a wry smile.

Allison scoffed. "Just ask me about it. I promise, I'm not too delicate, and you should know about it."

"You should wait until Watson is here," Sherlock advised. "You would only have to tell us once."

"So what are you two…?" Allison trailed off.

"No," Sherlock replied simply. "She is my partner. We work together."

"I see…" Allison nodded. "Well, if you'd rather I wait, then I will."

Sherlock released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Truth be told, he wasn't sure he was ready to hear what had happened to her just yet.

"Instead…" Allison smirked. "Why don't you tell me what you've been up to since we last saw each other?"

"You need sleep," Sherlock replied hesitantly.

"I won't be sleeping anymore for a little while now," Allison said flatly. "What I need is a distraction. So, tell me what you've been doing."

Sherlock sighed and shook his head at the weak form in the bed. Even as weak as she was, he still had no power to refuse her. "Alright," he sighed. "I suppose I could fill you in on a few cases."

_**Well, there's chapter two. Thanks for the support on the last chapter – it was a really nice surprise. I hope this chapter was just as in character…Sherlock is really tough to write for, especially emotionally Sherlock. Anyway, please leave a comment, and I'll try to update again soon. Maybe Watson will get some background information about Allison…**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Woman**_

_To me she will always be "The Woman". To me she eclipsed and dominated the whole of her gender." ~ Sherlock Holmes_

When Joan came downstairs the next morning, she found Sherlock already up and in the kitchen as per usual. Everything for her coffee was set out and ready for her while he finished up making what Joan's nose told her was eggs. She also noticed that there was a kettle of hot water boiling on the stove, and two cups stood ready nearby.

"Good morning," she said wearily as she began to brew her coffee.

Sherlock replied with a curt nod and continued to concentrate on breakfast.

Joan knew he was still angry with her for her comments the night before about the woman upstairs. Her conversation with Mycroft had done some good to lessen her worries, but she was still concerned about having two recovering addicts in the house at once. Still, Mycroft had assured her that Allison meant more to Sherlock than she could imagine, and she should give him a chance to explain the situation in his own words. Now she just had to get him to talk to her.

"Sherlock…I know you're still mad at me, and I understand why. Your brother explained a few things to me last night that I needed to hear. I know I probably jumped to conclusions last night, but please understand that I was just worried about you, and I still am."

Sherlock turned to face her to show he was listening.

"Your brother told me she was important to you, and I respect that. I won't pretend to understand it, but I will respect it. He told me that a lot of things happened between you two in London," she continued carefully.

"A great deal did," Sherlock agreed. "I suppose you want me to tell you about it. You always have been one for talking."

"Don't you think I should know?" Joan argued. "I do live here too, you know."

Sherlock sighed. "Yes I fully plan on telling you, but not right this minute."

"Why?" Joan demanded. "Because you're still going to be mad at me until I apologize? I won't because I was just trying to look out for you. I've admitted I reacted too quickly, but I will not say I'm sorry for trying to protect you."

"I'm not telling you right now because Allison's tea is finished, and I don't want it to get cold," Sherlock replied simply. "Help yourself to breakfast," he added on his way out of the kitchen.

Joan stood dumbfounded as Sherlock swept from the kitchen with the necessary elements for tea perched on a tray before him. She had been wrong… horribly wrong, and yet he had not hastened to correct her error or even become angry with her. She bit her lip and remained rooted to the spot. She had just begun to pride herself on her detective work and her powers of deduction, but it was beginning to look as though the woman upstairs would be the exception to the rule. It was already obvious that she had some strange power over Sherlock that Joan had never thought possible.

As Joan moved to the stove to prepare her breakfast, she began to do some serious soul searching. What was really bothering her about this new addition to life at the Brownstone? She hadn't raised this much of a fuss when Irene had arrived; in fact, she had done quite the opposite and offered to help in any way she could. She had willingly accepted the relationship between Sherlock and Irene, so why was this one so different? True, the woman was a drug addict in some form, but she knew deep down that Sherlock was strong enough to resist the relapse triggers another addict would bring… the recent events with Alistair had proven that much to her.

She half wondered if it was the secrecy. Sherlock had opened up and told her about Irene and everything that had happened between them, but this woman had been a total surprise. Perhaps the real reason for all the suspicion and anger was the knowledge that Sherlock had been keeping something so personal from her for all this time. True, she had not shared every single aspect of her personal life with him, but she had begun to expect a certain degree of honesty that certainly included a relationship of this importance.

Joan shifted awkwardly in her seat as she stared at her plate of rapidly chilling eggs. Unwelcome thoughts had begun to enter her mind as she pondered the mystery of this Allison. Was anything that Sherlock told her the truth? Had Irene really meant that much to him, or was she simply part of an elaborate scheme to keep Allison a secret? Perhaps she, Joan, was simply the third in a line of female partners and would be as easily expendable as the other two had been.

No! She would not allow herself to think that way. Sherlock cared about her and her safety… he had proven that a fair number of times. But still…the thought of being merely the next in line refused to leave the back of her mind as Joan vowed to put the matter away and eat her now stone cold breakfast.

Allison lay staring at the ceiling of her room, waiting for Sherlock to return with his promised tea. Despite his initial doubts the night before, he had told her quite a bit about his work since London and about the woman who was now filling the role of "partner". Now, Allison lay wondering how to deal with all that she had heard.

It was obvious that this Watson had become something quite special to Sherlock, but Allison could not help wondering just how _special_. In all honesty, Allison was surprised Watson had even let her in the house considering her condition. True it wasn't her fault, but when would that stop a concerned ex-sober companion, especially if said sober companion had feelings for her now ex-patient?

Allison sighed and forced her head deeper into her pillow in an attempt to stop the visions of Sherlock and this Watson doing God knows what over the months and months of living together. This would not be the first time she worried about being replaced in Sherlock's eyes. Despite his outward attitude of cold indifference to women, there was some inexplicable power that seemed to pull them in regardless. Perhaps this Watson was just another victim to that strange vacuum effect.

Just as Allison sighed and turned her head to bury her face in the pillow, the door of her room opened to reveal a tea tray followed by Sherlock. She watched in silence as he placed the tray down on her bedside table and carefully added milk and sugar to her cup.

He handed her the cup with a small smile, and Allison closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar scent with a fond smile. "Mmmm…you made my favorite," she sighed without opening her eyes.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied. "Well…I just happened to have it, and I thought it appropriate, therefore…" he trailed off.

Allison slowly opened her eyes to see him rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. She took a deep drink from the cup before grinning at Sherlock. "Are you just going to stand there uncomfortably?" she asked. "It's not like we don't know each other."

Sherlock smiled ruefully and perched himself on the edge of her bed, the tense attitude remaining hidden in his rigid posture.

"Are you alright?" Allison asked, concerned. "You look worried about something."

"I suppose I am," Sherlock replied. "Watson has not taken to your arrival as I would have expected her to. She has become quite…negative about the whole affair."

"I'm not surprised," Allison sighed. "I am a recovering addict, after all. That could be dangerous for you."

"And it would be far more so to send you from my sight," Sherlock snapped. "I will not let you go again!"

Allison laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere just yet. Have you considered telling Watson about our history? Perhaps she wouldn't be so negative if she understood everything."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "She asked." He finally met her eyes and continued. "She wants to know everything…she asked me this morning."

"So that's why you're so tense," Allison smiled. "You wanted to ask me if you could tell her, is that it?"

Sherlock gently cupped her cheek with his hand. "You still know me so well…" he marveled with a smile.

"Of course I do," Allison replied. "Now get down there and straighten this whole affair out, will you? I'd rather not cause World War three in your house."

Sherlock chuckled and rose from the bed. "I'll be back to check on you in a few hours. Will you be alright until then?"

Allison laughed. "I think I can manage. Now go!"

Sherlock nodded and closed the door behind him.

"If you want to know the story of Allison and myself then I suggest we adjourn to the living room," Sherlock announced when he reached the kitchen. Watson was standing at the sink doing the dishes, and she froze at the words she heard.

"It is quite a long story, Watson, so I insist," Sherlock added when she did not move.

Knowing her window of opportunity would be short-lived, Joan hurriedly dried her hands and followed Sherlock to the room upstairs and sat down on the couch, looking up at him expectantly.

Sherlock took a deep breath, clenched his hands at his sides a few times, and rocked on the balls of his feet again. "Before I begin, Watson, I must set a few rules."

Joan rolled her eyes. Only Sherlock would turn a simple story into an affair with "rules".

"First, I must ask that you do not interrupt me at any point," he continued. "This is a rather difficult and complicated story, and I would rather not have to start and stop to answer questions. I promise I will be quite thorough. Second, refrain from judging until the end of the story."

"Oh I have to refrain from judging people, but you're allowed to do it all the time?" Joan snapped, finally losing her patience with Sherlock's rules.

"Watson…" Sherlock muttered warningly.

"Fine!" Joan huffed, throwing her hands in the air in surrender. "I'll be quiet, just tell your story."

Sherlock nodded and clenched his hands a few more times. "Several years ago I was handed a case that ended up threatening the life of the Prime Minister. The case culminated at a ball which I was forced to attend in order to protect his life. I was quite bored and quite annoyed. I had already made all the deductions I could about everyone in the room, and it was looking to be a very long evening. That was when she walked through the door…"

_**FLASHBACK**_

Sherlock lounged against the wall of the party, a glass of champagne in his hand that he swirled more out of boredom than anything, as he stared around at the people mingling. Every single one of them was rich, rude, manipulative, and full of themselves. Sherlock had absolutely no desire to speak to any of them, and all he wished for was to end the case and get home. He should never have taken this case in the first place…protection was a job for Scotland Yard, not a private detective!

He rolled his eyes and scowled as the orchestra for the evening took their places and began to tune. Although the music was the only thing he could stomach at these parties, the dancing and social expectancy to do so made him want to disappear into the nearest wall. His attention was suddenly caught by movement at the entrance to the room.

A new couple had just entered the room, and Sherlock was interested immediately. The man was nothing special – just another suit. No doubt he was some diplomat or other judging by his attire and the way his eyes swept the room in search of the other politicians. The woman, however, was another matter entirely.

The first thing he noticed was her uncanny beauty. Normally immune to such things, Sherlock was quite shocked to realize this fact about her, but it seemed her beauty was intoxicating. Perhaps it had something to do with the way she moved – almost as though she was gliding instead of walking – and the way she carried herself with the utmost of confidence.

It was clear to Sherlock that she meant nothing to the man beside her except perhaps for the way she looked. Her hand was tucked in the crook of his arm, but he made no other move to show possession of her: holding her hand, putting an arm around her waist, or even covering the hand on his arm. However, a smirk crossed Sherlock's face as he noticed how quickly she handed her wrap to the man at the door and informed her date that she was going to mingle.

He simply waved her off as his attention was now fixed on the politicians at the other end of the room. The woman practically flew across the room to get as far away from her date as she could and quickly found the nearest glass of champagne. Sherlock chuckled at her obvious disgust at the situation and watched as she began her mingling.

Over the next hour, she spoke to very few people, preferring to stand in corners and watch the proceedings. Sherlock did the same, moving around the room to avert suspicion and to avoid the small crowd of women that seemed to have eyed him as a potential distraction from their own dates. He had just made another one of his avoiding moves when he looked up and realized he had lost sight of the woman he had been watching all night.

"I'm right here," an American voice said amusedly in his ear.

Sherlock turned on the spot to see the woman smirking up at him, swirling her glass of champagne. "Who says I was looking for you?" Sherlock challenged, raising his eyebrow.

The woman scoffed. "Please…a blind man would notice you've been staring at me since my arrival. I have to admit, though, I have no idea why."

Sherlock felt his eyebrows rise even further as she continued.

"It's obvious you aren't interested in finding a date because you've been running from those women all night," she pointed at the group that was chattering in the corner he had left twenty minutes ago. "You also have no idea who I am or you would have spoken before now, so I can't say I know why you're staring at me. Care to enlighten me?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "You are…interesting," he said finally.

The woman laughed. "Well that's certainly a new one!" she continued to laugh. "You're pretty interesting yourself."

Sherlock raised his glass to her before turning back to the party.

"I hate these things, you know," the woman continued after a moment. "Everyone is so boring and obvious even when they think they're being clever."

"Meaning?" Sherlock asked, deciding to play along and see what the woman could do.

"Well, just look at that couple dancing over there," she nodded at a young man and woman dancing discretely in the corner opposite them. "It's obvious that they are lovers. She is married to a man quite a bit older than her, and although he doesn't pay much attention to her, he would not like seeing her with another man. The man she's dancing with thinks he can take her husband, but she doesn't want to lose the money he offers her."

Sherlock gaped at her for a moment – he had never met another human being who could deduce like him. He had, of course, come to same conclusions some time ago, but the fact that the woman beside him could do the same…

"And that man over there is here on business according to his wife, but he's really here to have an affair," she continued. "He even tried to pick me up a little while ago."

Sherlock knew she was correct again for he had seen the attempted flirting for himself. "You have quite the remarkable eye for detail Miss…?" he trailed off.

"James," the woman replied. "Nicole James. And you would be?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied offering his hand. She reached out in an attempt to shake hands, but Sherlock twisted her wrist and lightly kissed the backs of her knuckles.

"The famous Sherlock Holmes…" Nicole marveled. "That makes your compliment all the more flattering. I suppose you're here about the upcoming attempt on the Prime Minister's life?"

"Indeed," Sherlock replied. "But how did you know that? I was under the impression that was top secret information."

"You are under the correct impression," Nicole smiled. "But not everyone here is what they seem," she said mysteriously.

Sherlock suddenly smirked and gently pulled down the one sleeve of Nicole's gown just enough to catch the glint of a badge. "Of course…" he chuckled. "FBI is it not?"

Nicole nodded and sipped her champagne. "I'm here with some rising diplomat from America in order to catch the assassin. I only have one slight problem – I haven't been able to see into the center of the crowd, and those men refuse to come back out to the edges of the room! To get into that mess without suspicion, I would have to have a dance partner, but I can't trust anyone enough to dance and not notice my wandering eyes."

"Problem solved," Sherlock said without really thinking of the implications.

"Pardon?" Nicole asked, raising her eyebrow.

"While I do not usually prefer it, I am quite capable of dancing," he continued, too far into the situation to remove himself now.

Nicole stared at him with wide eyes.

Sherlock placed his empty glass of champagne down on the nearest table and turned to Nicole with the most proper posture he could muster. He offered his hand. "Nicole James, would you do me the honor of a dance?" he asked.

Nicole's startled face broke into a wide, genuine smile as she placed her hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the center of the dance floor.

The orchestra soon struck up a gentle waltz as Sherlock clasped one of Nicole's hands in his and slid his other hand around her waist that was clad in a pale pink silk. He felt her other hand slide up his arm to rest at his shoulder and felt his skin tingle beneath his dress shirt and jacket at the contact.

As the music began, Sherlock slowly guided them around the floor with perfect grace and poise. However, unlike the other couples around them who were eagerly staring into each other's eyes with promises of what would be later that night or secretly sneaking glances around for the person they came in with, Sherlock and Nicole's eyes were on everyone but each other.

Both were searching for anyone remotely out of the ordinary, but it was Nicole who saw it first. She met Sherlock's eyes, and he gracefully spun her out and away from him only to pull her close enough to whisper without drawing attention.

"The man beside the punch bowl," she whispered hurriedly.

Sherlock spotted him at once, but could not stare as the dance forced him to turn his back again. "How do you know?" he asked quietly.

"He keeps bumping his right hip against the table," Nicole explained.

"Checking to make sure his weapon is still there?" Sherlock questioned.

"Exactly," Nicole replied. "And, he keeps looking up at the skylight like he's expecting something – he glances at his watch each time."

Sherlock nodded, putting the pieces together in his mind. "So there's a gunman on the roof, and our man is simply backup in case of a misfire."

Nicole nodded. "How should we deal with this?"

"I go to the roof and incapacitate the gunman," he explained quickly, "while you remain here to deal with the backup. I trust your training has rendered you capable of handling it?"

"It has," Nicole assured him. "I can handle anything."

"Past experience with the FBI has taught me to be wary of trusting agents, but somehow I sense you may just be different," Sherlock muttered with a wry smile.

Nicole grinned mischievously. "Perhaps…" she whispered.

"Out of curiosity," Sherlock asked quietly, "you are here on a job for the FBI, therefore I assume you are here in disguise. What is your real name?"

Nicole smirked. "I should have known I couldn't fool you. You're right, of course, Nicole James is not my real name. My real name is Allison Jones."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I swear it is!" Allison laughed. "I know it sounds made up, but I promise I'm telling the truth."

"Well I hope you are," Sherlock replied. "I much prefer the name Allison on you anyway."

Allison blushed just as the orchestra played their final note.

Sherlock pulled away and bowed with a smile at her before giving a reassuring nod and disappearing into the crowd.

Standing by the door leading to the roof, Sherlock waited until the Prime Minister called for everyone's attention for some speech or other. This would be the perfect time for the assassins to put their plan into action, and so Sherlock slipped through the door and sprinted up the stairs to the roof.

Once he reached the next door, he peered through the tiny window to see a figure hunched over a case of some kind. Sherlock recognized the set up for a sniper rifle and silently opened the door and crept across the roof. Sherlock knew he had only moments before the assassin was due to pull the trigger.

Just as the assassin took aim, Sherlock leapt onto his back and skillfully rolled away from the gun and the skylight. The assassin growled and fought back, putting up much more of a struggle than Sherlock had anticipated. Still, Sherlock managed to hold the other man away from the gun and slowly forced him to the ground beneath him. Sherlock held the assassin's arms tightly behind his back and cuffed his wrists with a pair of hidden cuffs from his pocket.

Even as Sherlock smirked down at his handiwork, he heard a gunshot cut through the night. He tore over to the skylight and peered through the window, but he could not see who had fired the shot or where it had hit. He turned to run back through the door when he saw the assassin had gone. Cursing to himself, Sherlock ran back through the door and down the stairs to the main ballroom.

When he finally arrived, he saw Allison pinning the backup man to the floor. She glanced up at the Prime Minister to make sure the shot had not hit him, and she did not see the glint of a blade beneath her.

"Allison!" Sherlock bellowed across the room, but he was too late.

Even as Allison turned to look from him to the man beneath her, Sherlock saw the blade disappear into her right side.

He ran forward and watched as she slammed her arm across the man's head, knocking him out cold. Half a dozen men dragged the criminal from her just as Sherlock reached her. He arrived just in time to catch her as she collapsed in a dead faint.

_**Thank you all so much for your support on this story! It really means a lot to me, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please fav/follow/review, and I hope to have the next chapter out soon! Let me know what you think, and I'll be back soon with more!**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: There is some mild language in this chapter…just to warn you all. Enjoy!**_

_**The Profiler**_

"What an interesting way to meet a woman," Watson smirked as Sherlock paused to take a breath. "Somehow, though, it works for you."

Sherlock simply stared at her for a moment with a blank expression.

"I know, I know, I said I wouldn't interrupt," she sighed. "It just seems a bit farfetched even for you. You're telling me you actually trusted someone that fast without knowing them at all?"

"Are you forgetting I observed her for over an hour before speaking to her?" Sherlock questioned.

"No, but that's still fast for you," Watson argued. "I mean, we lived together for months before you even mentioned Irene's name."

"You are comparing divulging personal information to using assets to solve a case," Sherlock replied simply. "Besides, this was before Irene."

"So you didn't have the fear of loss yet," Watson supplied. "Or, at least, it was significantly less."

Sherlock nodded. "May I continue now?"

"Sure," Watson replied.

"Allison was rushed to the hospital where she spent several days recovering from her wound. I was held up by the need to wrap up the case, but I had made plans to go and visit her on the fourth day after the party. However, I was waylaid at my home by a most unwelcome visitor…"

_**FLASHBACK**_

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh of relief as he closed the door to his home and hurriedly hung his coat on the appropriate peg in the wall. He had been working almost non-stop at the station to help finish up the mess with the Prime Minister, and although he liked having something to do, he was quite drained.

Glancing at his watch, he smiled smugly as he noted there was still enough time to take a shower and get to the hospital before visiting hours would be over. His greatest annoyance about the wrap up of the case was it prevented him from going to visit the young woman who had been so key in solving the case…at least, that was what he was telling himself for the moment.

Choosing to ignore (yet again) the nagging problem of Allison and his emotions, he jogged up the stairs for his much needed shower. He emerged from said shower about fifteen minutes later and cracked open the door to allow the excess of steam to escape from the room so he could breathe properly again. He had just finished towel drying his hair when he heard his doorbell ring downstairs.

Grumbling to himself, he tugged on his jeans and chose to forgo a shirt as he ran down the stairs and flung the door open angrily. He froze, however, when he saw who was on the other side and suddenly found himself wishing he had put on a shirt.

"Hello, Sherlock," the American woman smirked. "How lovely to see you again so soon."

"I do not regret I cannot say the same, Miss Drummond" Sherlock replied tersely. "What are you doing here?"

"Do you mind if I come in?" she asked. "This is rather…official business."

Sherlock breathed angrily in through his nose but moved aside to allow her inside. "Now, what do you want?" he demanded once he had shut the door.

"I was informed you were at the party four days ago when the threat was made on the Prime Minister's life," she replied. "I was hoping I could get some information from you."

"Everything you need is in a file at Scotland Yard," Sherlock replied crisply. "I'll inform Lestrade you're coming, good bye."

"I mean information about a Miss Allison Jones," Drummond cut him off. "I was told you were the one that called the ambulance."

"Yes I was," Sherlock replied curtly. "I realize you would not understand the need to help another human being."

"Oh no I realize that, I just don't understand how you do," she sighed. "But, I digress. I'm not here about you."

"Because you've already done enough to me, so now you're moving your sights to someone else, yeah?" Sherlock accused. "I have nothing to say to you."

"Honestly, Sherlock, I don't understand why you're so upset about that, but I can tell you I'm not here to write another article. I'm here on business from the FBI. They sent me to…determine…a few things about Miss Jones."

"Determine what, exactly?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, frankly, if she gets to keep her job or not," Drummond replied. "You see, the FBI can't have people getting hurt and blowing their cover when they're supposed to be the best at what they do. I'm here to find out just how bad the breech in security was. Did you know she was an agent on a mission?"

"That is irrelevant!" Sherlock yelled. "You know it is my job to see through disguises!"

"So you did know," Drummond smirked. "And she gave her real name to the hospital as well…dear, dear."

"You would not have been so quick to create a lie if you were the one bleeding from a knife wound," Sherlock snapped. "If you'd like, I could demonstrate my point."

"Now, now, there's no need to get violent," Drummond said. "It's a shame, really. She worked so hard to pull herself up."

"You're actually going to fire her for getting stabbed?!" Sherlock cried in disbelief. "I know the FBI has stooped low by hiring you, but this I cannot believe."

Drummond shrugged. "The decision is mine to make. And besides, the higher ups didn't really care for her methods anyway. She tends to make her own rules when she's out on a job, so I'm sure they won't mind my cutting ties with her. Thank you for your time, Sherlock."

Sherlock fumed as Drummond closed the door behind her. He did not dare move until he heard the taxi she had come in drive away from his home. Only then did he feel safe enough to relax his muscles again. The woman was infuriating at the best of times, and he shuddered to think now of how he had been with her on her last visit to England.

Still breathing heavily, he collapsed into his armchair and valiantly tried to calm his racing heart and raging emotions. The article Drummond had written about him bothered him more than he would ever care to admit, mainly her comments on his downfall. Being a detective with as many enemies as he had, he had long expected to meet his end at one of their hands, but the very idea of being his own executioner…

He shook his head and stood up abruptly as though to try and shake the thought from his very being. There had been something he had been doing before Drummond interrupted him…the hospital! Cursing under his breath, Sherlock ran back up the stairs two at a time and finished getting ready to go out – he was determined to beat Drummond and her bad news to Miss Jones.

Allison lay in her hospital bed grumbling to herself about doctors and protocol that would not allow her to leave before three o'clock that afternoon, even though she was perfectly fine. In fact, she had felt perfectly fine since the morning before, but her doctor had flat out refused to release her.

She was bored, annoyed, and angry with herself – a bad combination. Constantly berating herself for that momentary lapse in concentration, Allison's temper had grown even shorter at not being allowed to see her case through to conclusion. The doctors had not even allowed her to see the finished case file. Thankfully, they had allowed her access to her phone which meant she at least knew the proper man had been taken into custody.

Glancing at the clock, Allison heaved a huge, dramatic sigh and smirked when she heard the unmistakable sound of her doctor's footsteps pause outside her room. He stuck his head in the door and chuckled. "Sorry Miss Jones," he said with a knowing smile. "You're not getting out of here before three today no matter how much you him and haw at me."

Allison frowned and crossed her arms beneath her chest. "I'm perfectly fine, and you know it. I should have been out of here yesterday."

"Well, when you go to medical school and have a practice of your own, then you can make that call. Until then, you stay right there until three o'clock," the doctor smiled before continuing on his rounds.

Allison let out a derisive snort and leaned back against the mountain of pillows behind her. She hated situations where she wasn't in charge especially when the person who was happened to be a jerk about it. What she wouldn't give to show that doctor…

She suddenly sat up, a sly smile creeping across her face. She may not be able to get a degree to get out, but that didn't mean she needed one. Her mind began racing at all the possibilities.

She immediately ruled out becoming a nurse or a doctor – the clothes would be too hard to get ahold of. She also ruled out sneaking out as she was – the hospital gown was a) too recognizable and b) not conducive to escaping in. That left one option – sneaking out as a visitor.

While this was more likely than her other options, it still left her with a decent amount of planning. She glanced at the time on her phone: eleven o'clock. That gave her four hours to plan and pull this off. She pushed the button that would call for a nurse and put on her best poker face.

"Do you need something, Miss?" the nurse asked. While Allison was quite hostile towards the doctor, her nurse had proven to be kind and compassionate to the point that Allison was unable to be cruel to her.

"Yes I do as a matter of fact," Allison replied. "I'll be checking out today, and I can't wear what I came in with. I was wondering if you could get me some clothes for when I leave?"

The nurse smiled. "I'll be back soon."

Allison grinned and began to plan the rest of her escape as she waited for her nurse to return.

An hour later, the nurse returned with a stack of neatly folded clothes in her arms. She placed them in the chair beside the bed. "There you are," she smiled.

"Thank you so much!" Allison returned. "They're perfect."

The nurse left the room again, and Allison turned her attention to the stack of clothes. Cautiously checking the door, Allison slid the jeans from the bottom of the pile and hurriedly pulled them beneath the hospital sheets.

Over the next hour or so, Allison had strategically managed to get dressed and hide that fact beneath her hospital gown. She was planning the final stage of her escape when she suddenly saw someone appear in her doorway, and it was certainly not someone she wanted to see.

"Drummond…" Allison hissed.

"Miss Jones, I'm glad to find you awake," Drummond said with a sickly sweet smile. "The way the agency understood it your wound was quite terrible."

Allison shrugged. "He was unskilled and that made it worse, but you should know all about being unskilled."

Drummond's lip curled as she shrugged off her long coat and flung it unceremoniously on top of her purse in the guest chair. "I have some things I need to discuss with you, but," she pointed at the bathroom door, "give me just a minute."

Allison nodded and barely managed to wait until the door was closed to break into an evil grin.

Sherlock was practically running up the street towards the hospital. He knew he would be only slightly behind Drummond if he was behind at all. Assuming it still took as long to connect to the FBI as it had when he had worked with them, he estimated that there was perhaps a five minute gap between them at most. He wondered how Allison would take to the news Drummond would bring. As he began to plot hundreds of different ways to retaliate against Drummond (some ending in her being fired and others much worse), he failed to pay the necessary attention to the human traffic around him and collided head on with a young woman.

They bounced apart, him rubbing his chest and she her forehead even as she tried to hurry on. "My apologies," Sherlock muttered.

The woman looked up and smiled even as Sherlock's jaw dropped. "Well I certainly wasn't expecting to run into you…figuratively or literally."

"Wh-what are you doing?" Sherlock finally managed. "There's no way you've been released."

"Well…not technically…" Allison replied with a guilty smile.

"Come on," Sherlock said knowingly. "I'll get us a cab, and we can talk."

He hailed the cab and gestured for her to enter first which she did gratefully. Climbing in beside her, Sherlock gave the cabbie his address, and they left the hospital behind them.

"So when were you supposed to be released?" Sherlock asked casually.

"About two hours from now," Allison replied simply with a glance at her watch.

"May I ask why then?" Sherlock inquired, greatly amused by the woman beside him. "What purpose did escaping serve?"

Allison shrugged. "I was bored. I hate hospitals, and they always keep me longer than I need to be there. I've done this loads of times before."

Sherlock could not help the laugh that escaped him.

Allison was incensed. "What?" she asked indignantly. "I can't see you being any better."

"Touché," Sherlock replied.

There was silence in the cab for a few moments before Allison spoke again. "Where are we going?"

"To my home," Sherlock answered her with a fond smile. "I can't help but think that you of all people will truly appreciate it."

"To see the home of the great Sherlock Holmes…" Alison smiled. "This has been the best case I've ever had."

Sherlock felt his stomach twist as he remembered the mission of Drummond. He wondered if Drummond had somehow gotten the news to Allison before she left the hospital, but he doubted it. Still, he did not see the back of a cab as a suitable place to discuss such matters, and instead decided to wait until they were both safely behind the walls of 221B.

"Wow…" Allison gasped as she finally saw the inside of Sherlock's house. 221B was a mess of case files, various chemicals strewn across a table on the far side, books stacked three feet high beside the many shelves bursting at the seams, old and worn furniture crammed in the tiniest square feet of space, tea cups left on their saucers on every flat surface, TV and computer monitors glowing blue along one wall, and a violin leaning carefully on the side of the armchair. In fact, the only bare space in the room was a large wall opposite said armchair.

"So what normally goes there?" she asked.

"Evidence from whatever case I'm working on," Sherlock replied as he hung up his coat on the hook beside the door. "Have a seat wherever you can find space. I haven't had time to tidy since the case threatening the Prime Minister," he added in explanation.

"I understand," Allison laughed. "You should see my things after I'm done with a case…my landlady gets so mad!"

Sherlock smiled and took his regular seat in the armchair. "Care to tell me how you managed to escape from the hospital?" he asked curiously. "The back of a cab did not seem an appropriate place for such a discussion."

"It wasn't that hard," Allison replied. "I knew I couldn't pull of a doctor or a nurse because I couldn't get to the clothes I would need. Besides, that's too complicated a disguise for something so simple. I decided that getting out looking like a visitor would be my best bet, so I asked the nurse for clothes for my release. After she brought them to me, I slowly changed while making sure to hide everything under the hospital gown in case anyone saw me. I was getting ready to leave when I got a visitor…well, I say 'visitor' but it wasn't exactly someone I liked seeing."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, already fearing the answer.

"Kathryn Drummond," Allison spat. "She works for the FBI as a 'profiler', but it's all a bunch of garbage! She's right maybe once in a thousand, but the FBI still lets her have full run of whatever she wants. Anyway, she said she came to talk but went to the bathroom first. Well, I saw an opportunity to make my escape, and I took it. I stole her coat and bag to get out of the room and the ward, then when I got to the desk, I gave the receptionist the coat and the bag saying I found them in the hallway. I had just got out when I ran into you."

"I wonder how Drummond responded to having her bag and coat stolen," Sherlock smirked.

"Oh you know her too?"

"We've…interacted," Sherlock supplied evasively.

"Is that your way of telling me you slept with her?" Allison asked, a knowing smirk on her face.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably but did not reply directly.

"Not judging," Allison insisted, putting her hands up in surrender. "I know she's a manipulative little pain, believe me. Some of the reports she's written make me want to use her for target practice. I mean, did you read the one she called 'The Deductionist'?"

Sherlock stiffened in his chair and nodded curtly.

"Oh I hated that one!" Allison continued angrily. "The nerve of that woman to insinuate that someone so intelligent was incapable of love or real connection to another person, and then to go on and say he would destroy himself?! I just wanted to…to…oh my God! That article!" she suddenly cried, raising a hand to her mouth in horror. "It-it's about _you_, isn't it?"

Sherlock nodded again and stood abruptly to face the window.

"Oh my God I am so sorry!" Allison gasped. "I don't know why I didn't realize…"

"She used information she gathered from our…private time together," he replied tersely. "The next thing I knew, the article was everywhere without my consent."

"That little bitch!" Allison screamed. "Oooo…now I hate her even more!"

"She was here earlier," Sherlock admitted. "I honestly don't know how I restrained myself."

"Well then," Allison giggled suddenly, "you'll be really happy when I tell you what I did to her before I left the hospital."

"What did you do?" Sherlock asked excitedly – with this woman's imagination, he knew it could be a great many things.

Allison fought to speak through her laughter. "I…well…you said you wondered how she dealt with having her purse stolen. Let's just say she had bigger problems to worry about, and I doubt she knew her purse was gone before I even got out of the building."

A look of realization slowly crept over Sherlock's face. "You-"

"I locked her in the bathroom!" Allison cried and collapsed in a fit of laughter as Sherlock's face broke into a smile and he, too, began to laugh.

"Quite brilliant," he finally managed.

"Thank you, I try," Allison replied, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.

Suddenly, the sound of a phone buzzing interrupted their conversation.

"Oops that's me!" Allison announced, pulling her phone from her pocket.

Sherlock watched as her face went from flushed with laughter to white then back to flushed, but this time with anger as she read the message before her.

"Do you own anything that I can beat up without breaking it?" she finally asked through gritted teeth as she turned off the screen of her phone and clutched it tightly in her fist.

"I have a single stick dummy upstairs," Sherlock replied.

"I think I need to borrow it," Allison seethed. "That bitch just had me fired from the FBI."

_**Sorry about the wait everyone! I hope this was worth it. So, this was basically my therapy for how much I hated Drummond and that article from season 1. Did anyone else find her super annoying, or was it just me? Anyway, it was fun being mean to her (hence the whole scene in the hospital).**_

_**Please leave your comments in a review, and I'll try to update as soon as I can! Thanks everyone for your support – you are all awesome!**_


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